Thicker than Blood
by Maria Arnt
Summary: "The horror – the horror was for love. The things we do for love like this are ugly, mad, full of sweat and regret. This love burns you, maims you, twists you inside out. It is a monstrous love, and it makes monsters of us all" Marvel Crimson Peak Re-write. Natasha x Loki, Loki x Lorelei, Natasha x Steve Rogers. Rated M for violence and sex. ;)
1. Prologue

I have arisen from the dead! My good friend Audrey and I have collaborated to bring you this Marvel Cinematic Universe/Crimson Peak crossover, and it will also be posted on AO3 under the same name. After watching Crimson Peak, Audrey and I were a little let down, having imagined all kinds of supernatural goings-on, and were disappointed that it was only ghosts, and there were no ritual sacrifices going on. We also found Thomas Sharpe to lack a spine entirely, Edith to be a terrible Mary Sue, and Alan almost a copy-paste of Raul, Vicompte de Chagny (from Phantom of the Opera) where we didn't like him in the first place. So, with all respect to Guillermo del Toro, we sought out to create the story we thought Crimson Peak emshould /emhave been. Given Tom Hiddleston's role, and both our preferred fanfiction domains, the Marvel solution practically presented itself.

A few comments before you begin reading:

The purpose of this story is to retell Crimson Peak as if it had taken place in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. For this purpose, we have stayed fairly close to Crimson Peak, changing only the character's names and their reactions to keep them in-character. As such, there is a lot of dialogue taken directly from the movie. When we first started writing, we didn't have access to the movie itself and had to go off of the novelization. This resulted in rather large portions of the text being used exactly the same. We hope that since we're not making any money off of this story that Guillermo del Toro and Nancy Holder will forgive us this offense.

Likewise, we don't own any of the characters from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. We've borrowed them from the Avengers, Daredevil, Jessica Jones, and anywhere else we thought appropriate. We also dipped into the Comics universe for more info, particularly for Ivan, Lorelei (who is one of my FAVORITE comic book characters and I was THRILLED when she showed up on Agents of SHIELD, pretty much unchanged) and Steve's family.

So we hope you enjoy the story, and look forward to your comments!

* * *

 **Prologue**

The first time Natasha saw a ghost, she was just ten years old. It was snowing on the day they put her foster-mother in the ground. Large wet flakes fell softly, silently out of the sky, coating the congregation that stood in the cemetery. As was custom Natasha had been dressed all in black: her boots and stockings, a long black coat, and a black bonnet that framed her stricken white face and almost entirely hid the shock of her red, curly hair. She couldn't understand why she'd had to wear the garments, they itched terribly, and her mother had always hated to wear black. Had called it droll, drab. If Natasha tried hard enough to stifle her sniffling she swore she could hear her Mama pleading with Ivan, Natasha's foster-father, to not make his wife wear the color. They'd left Russia for a life with fewer rules and expectations, and now they were going to be trapped by them?

Natasha leaned back against Ivan's sturdy legs. She couldn't help but call her foster-father by his first name, although she had learned to call his wife, Alyona, her Mama quickly. Mama had been young and sweet, the warmth of a fireplace incarnate. Ivan was a stern man, but Mama had always balanced out his demeanor. Perhaps that had been why he married her. As they stood there she couldn't help but let her gaze wander, hoping it would help to distract her. It was a habit of hers to watch people, to try and figure out who they were from what they wore. To most, it would look as if everyone wore the same, albeit fantastic, uniform. Black, and more black. But there were touches here and there - muddy shoes that implied that man had been to another funeral earlier that day; a brooch made of human hair, likely belonging to a deceased loved one; a black veil that hid dry, uncrying eyes - that told her that the denizens of Buffalo, New York were no strangers to mourning.

Now, only two years after they had left Russia for a better life in America, it hardly mattered. The woman in question was hidden in the black, gleaming coffin - locked, for what reason Natasha knew not - and with her went all the warmth and affection Natasha had known in her ten years of living. She watched as it passed, breaking away from her study of the other mourners.

At last the coffin reached the rather ostentatious monument that Ivan had commissioned for their newly-purchased family plot. It was tall, and mostly composed of angel wings. Natasha thought it had very little to do with death, but perhaps that was the point. She turned to stare at the coffin, trying not to imagine her Mama within it. Her Mama's body had been so black that it looked as if she had died in a fire - or so Natasha had overheard Cook describing it to DeWitt, their butler. Natasha had been intrigued by the horrific revelation, but had no way to confirm it. In the Somodorov home, no one spoke to her about her terrible loss; all the servants fell silent whenever she walked into a room, completed their work quickly, and left to resume their whisperings elsewhere. Away from her. It wasn't anything new, they'd always acted like that around her, but she felt it more keenly now. She couldn't say what she would have liked them to do, she suspected only Mama would have known. The staff continued to keep their distance, as if the little Russian girl was bad luck.

Now, in the churchyard, she spotted Steven Rogers and his sister Nancy. A year older than Natasha, yellow-headed Steve with his pale cheeks was Natasha's boon companion in all things. His dark blue eyes, the only spot of color she could see in the graveyard, found her gaze and held it, almost as if he were holding her hand. Beside him, Nancy was fidgety, clearly bored. Though Nancy was but nine, she had already been to a plentiful number of funerals. They were Victorian children, after all, and death was not uncommon.

But while Natasha didn't find death to be a foreign concept this kind of personal loss was new to her. She felt as if she should cry, but she couldn't. Children are to be seen and not heard, she remembered, though she could hardly put her finger on where from. Steve, watching her, seemed to be the only one who understood the depths of the grief she couldn't show. Tears streamed down his pale, sickly face without a hint of shame.

Nancy shifted her weight and played with one of her blonde ringlets, her eyes unfocused. Steve tugged gently on his sister's wrist to make her stop and she batted at him. Their mother smiled wistfully down on them both as if she had not seen Nancy's unseemly display. Mrs. Rogers was still pretty, still alive.

Steve kept hold of Nancy's wrist. She thrust out her lower lip and their mother reached in the pocket of her sable coat, offering her daughter what appeared to be a sweet. Nancy grabbed at it, jerking free of her brother's grasp. Now it was Steve who pretended not to notice what was going on - or perhaps he truly did not see it. All his attention was fixed on Natasha as she swallowed down the bitter taste in her throat. There would be no more sweets from Mama, no smiles, no stories.

Black cholera had taken her. A horrible death, agonizing and slow. Not clean and swift, as a good death ought to be. Ivan had ordered a closed casket, and asked Natasha not to look so she wouldn't be scared. There were no parting kisses, no goodbyes, no last words, only the smooth, black casket being eased into the frozen ground. 

* * *

Time did not heal all wounds.

Her Mama had been dead for almost a month, and Natasha missed her more than ever. The black wreath still hung on the door and the servants wore armbands in their mistress's memory. Cook, who Ivan had brought with them when they'd moved, had not wanted the less superstitious maids to remove the black drapes from the mirrors. The butler DeWitt had laughed, said she was too superstitious, and Cook had answered that she was merely careful. "You can't be too sure when the dead are concerned."

According to Cook, back in Mother Russia, the spirit of a maiden aunt got stuck in a mirror in 1792 and had been haunting the family ever since. DeWitt had replied that as the drapes had gone up before Mrs. Somodorova had expired, and now that she was buried, there was no chance that the mistress was trapped.

Still, the drapes remained.

That evening, Natasha was lying in her little daybed, listening carefully to the ticking of the grandfather clock down the hall. The hurt in her heart cut a little deeper, became a little more painful with each passing night now that there was no Mama to read her bedtime stories or kiss her good night. Shadows of snowdrifts mottled the dusty covers of the books her mother and she had read together, a few pages every night. She could not bear to open them, not yet. Perhaps she never would. 

Instead she listened to the clock, it's ticking like the distant sound of an axe chopping wood. She found the sound soothing, mesmerizing. When she closed her eyes she could picture the pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth. In time she found herself imagining Ivan's pocket watch instead, swinging in and out of a shaft of candlelight. Her breathing slowed, but something within her tensed. Outside her bedroom window, the ever-present snow fell silently over the eastern shore of Lake Erie and the headwaters of the Niagara River. The beautifully appointed Somodorov home was cold that night, as it had been every night since Mama's death. Natasha felt as if it were she who had turned to ice, and could never hope to be warm again.

I hope she is not cold down in the ground. Natasha couldn't banish the thought, even though she had been told a dozen times - a hundred, even - that her mother was in a better place. Perhaps where she was she'd never need blankets again, didn't have to worry about the cold of winter when the chill spread like an infection through the bones and sinews of the body.

She burrowed deeper within the covers, recalling when her room was at its best: the soft, gentle voice of her Mama reading as Natasha snuggled beneath the coverlet with a cup of hot chocolate and a hot water bottle to keep her comfortable. Her imagination would run rampant, filling the otherwise empty, all together too large room, with the images her mother would produce. Her Mama's smile would be warmest of all, as though she knew what it was her daughter could do already, what visions she could create with the simplest of inspiration.

The best stories had started differently each time, each opening sentence a calling card to her imagination. Once upon a time. In a land far away. Across the sea. There once lived a young girl.

Her Mama's scary stories, the ones she told Natasha when she couldn't sleep, were the best. Back, across the sea and far expanses of land, the Russians didn't believe in coddling children with silly fairy-tales. No, they warned their children that if they did not sleep, they would be snatched up and eaten by the likes of Baba Yaga, made a play thing for Koschei the Deathless. Even the lullabies were scary.

Tili, tili bom  
Close your eyes now  
Someone is walking outside the house  
And knocks on the door.

But there was no music now, and she didn't think Ivan would ever read to her, not in the way that Mama had. Not when she needed those scary stories now more than ever.

The clock ticked, counting off the aching creep of her life without Mama. The tempo became that of the lullaby, and the words rolled on in her mind.

Tili, tili bom  
The nightbirds are a-chirping  
He is inside the house  
To visit those who aren't sleeping.

A strangled sound echoed through the house, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. Natasha jerked and clapped a hand over her mouth. Had that been her?

Her heartbeat stuttered as she shifted her head, listening so hard she thought she might strain herself.

Tick, tick, tick. Only the clock.

No. There it was again. A sad, low keening. A whisper of grief. Of agony. Natasha bolted upright and eased herself out of bed, creeping across the chilly floor, the floorboards creaked and the rustle of silk echoed with them. Yet she was not wearing silk.

Cook had told DeWitt that Mama had been dressed in her finest black silk gown to match the hue her skin had taken just hours before death. In a hushed whisper Cook had used words like "revolting, ghastly. A horror." She had been speaking of her mistress like a monster, yet kept quiet as though she feared she would be caught.

But that was Mama, who had been so beautiful, and smelled of lavender and honey, and loved to listen to the piano and sing. Who told Natasha the most wonderful stories about the headstrong princesses who thwarted devilish witches, of the princes who they rescued. She'd promised Natasha that her own life would end as happily as the stories, with a man who would build her a castle of her own— "with his own hands," she would say, her smile wistful, before adding, "just like your father."

But now, as Natasha stared into the gloom, she couldn't keep that Mama in her mind's eye. Her thoughts kept jolting back to the horror that Cook described, and now she wondered if the shadows kept shifting of their own accord, or if that was the play of snowflake silhouettes on the wallpaper. With a shock she realized that the clock had stopped ticking, as if it was too nervous to intrude upon the silence. She shifted her gaze from the wall to the end of the hallway. It was not quiet there, where the air seemed to shift, and then thicken.

Her blood went cold as the Erie Canal outside as a shape began to emerge from the gloom—a figure cloaked in shadow, hovering at the end of the hall. The figure was that of a woman, swathed in once-fine black silk that now hung tattered, as though it'd been ripped by hooked claws, as though some force had struggled to keep the figure down.

But it was just her imagination, wasn't it? Some trick of her grief-stricken mind? She'd seen Ivan drink more than he ever had in the past. Perhaps he had the same problem with keeping those tricky thoughts away.

Natasha felt her bones grow cold. It's not there. It's not.

She's not.

Her pulse raced. It was not gliding toward her.

She was not.

With a gasp, she turned away and darted back into her bedroom. Her skin prickled and her cheeks blazed even as her body shivered. She tried to listen but could only hear a roaring in her ears and the thud of her bare feet on the floor.

Natasha did not see the thing that followed after her as she ran, or feel the skeletal fingers of a shimmering hand as they moved to caress her hair. Moonlight shone on blackened finger bones, revealed a glimpse of a tormented face, the flesh eaten away and turned the color of coal.

No, Natasha could not see, but still she sensed.

There was something more, a spirit pulled forth by inextinguishable affection, by desperation, gliding, with the rustle of silk, and the clack of bone.

Natasha saw none of that as she scrambled to hide under the covers and plunged her hand under the pillow to find the small knife she had secreted there, stolen from the kitchen. She grasped the handle, quivering in terror. It was just an apparition, it wasn't real. The knife in her hand, that was real. There wasn't anything else to be afraid of.

But seconds later, as she turned on her side and buried her face in her pillow, she went absolutely rigid with shock. She felt the bed dip with the weight of an unseen body, a bony hand wrapping around her shoulder, smelled the damp earth of the grave, and heard the desiccated lips, a hoarse distortion of the voice she had come to love as it whispered into her ear:

"My child, when the time comes, beware of Crimson Peak."

Natasha screamed. She shot up and slashed out with the knife. The blade met only with darkness, until the gas lamps came back on. She hadn't even realized they'd gone out.

There was nothing— no one—in the room.

Until, alerted by her screams, Ivan hurried past her open door and pulled her into his arms, quieting her sobs with his arms wrapped around her small, trembling body. As he whispered to her that she was fine, she was safe, she buried her face into his shoulder and prayed she'd never have to hear that voice again, but the threat lodged itself in her mind.

Beware of Crimson Peak. But what on earth did that mean?

* * *

A/N: After I wrote Tilli Tilli Bom into the story, Audrey discovered that it's not actually a traditional Russian Lulluby, as I had believed, but written for a contemporary horror film. We decided that it fit too well, and kept it in. :)


	2. Chapter 1

Once again, we don't own any rights to Crimson Peak or the characters from the Marvel Cinematic Universe. More's the pity.

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

The morning had dawned with a strange sense of hope that Natasha wasn't entirely used to. Last night had been mostly spent tossing and turning, disturbed by dreams and half-forgotten memories, though for once it was the promise of the future that set her heart pulsing a thousand times faster. Her manuscript, piled safely, lovingly, on her desk, had stared at her every time she turned onto her side to face the door. Every time it had come into sights her fingers had itched to start revising it, to look over it and feel the ink beneath her hands. She was so sure there was more that could be tightened up-but no. Sleep needed to take precedence. She felt like a small child again, not a grown woman of 23.

She couldn't have been any happier when the sun had shone through her window, sitting up in bed with a newfound enthusiasm as she pushed off the covers and slid her feet into her slippers, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. She hastened to press her hands to the top of her manuscript, to reassure herself that it was still there. There, and waiting for her to present it to Ivan's friend, a publisher that would see it and love it and want to give her an advance and an estimated date for publication-.

Natasha shook her head with a smile on her lips. She was getting ahead of herself. Just because things were good for them now didn't mean that she had any right to be so flippant about something like this. The manuscript was, in no way, shape, or form, perfect, so there would be edits required. That she could handle. She dressed with the help of Annie, her servant fighting back yawns as she did up the lacings on Natasha's corset, pulling it just tight enough to allow her to sit and breathe comfortably before they slid on the clothes she'd picked out the day before. Wearing red would imply she was confident, wouldn't it? She had selected her garnet skirt, a white blouse, and a black tie to wear on this auspicious occasion. The skirt most closely matched her auburn hair, which she had wound into a smooth chignon and topped with a smart new hat adorned with a modesty veil that ought to identify her as something more than a fashion plate, yet something less than a Bohemian. A bright young woman with ambition. With talent. She worried at her bottom lip as the blouse was pulled over her head, her breathing shallow but not impossible, and closed her eyes to try and calm herself down.

"Beware of Crimson Peak..."

She jolted forward, the memory of her mother's withered and shadowed face coming at her from just behind her lids, her heart rabbit-quick in her chest. Her many-layered clothes felt tight, heavy, weighing her down and pulling her through the creaking floorboards and into the welcoming earth, which reached out with bony fingers-.

"Miss? Are you alright?"

Her eyes lit on the drawn face of the woman in front of her, Annie staring on in thinly veiled concern as Natasha latched onto her own shoulders for want of help staying upright. She'd come to their family after Mama had died and had never known the woman. Her shoulders were not pulled upon by the dead, her mind not burdened by the loss of such a wonderful woman. Not that she would have believed what Natasha said if she'd told her what it was that had come to her mind. Natasha hadn't been visited by her mother in years. Why was it, then, that the memory came back then to haunt her on this day, when she ought to have been triumphant, or hopeful at best? She nodded quickly, forcing a smile onto her face that didn't feel wholly natural but mollified Annie at the very least, allowing them to get back to finishing dressing her. If Annie noticed Natasha trembling she didn't say anything, perhaps assuming it was due to her nerves and anxieties about the day. That would be the simplest explanation, she supposed.

Breakfast was hardly a more stirring affair, Ivan having already left to go to work. Natasha would meet him after going to town to visit with his editor friend, and though she'd hoped to have good news in hand, right now she'd settle for just making it without losing what little food she could take in.

It was market day, and puffy white clouds laced the sky as Natasha made her way over the muddy yard in her high-buttoned shoes. For the first time in her life she had something she had created, a product to sell - and a potential buyer. She hefted the heavy parcel and smiled secretly to herself. It might not have been a building like her father's, but it was still of her own devising, written with her own hands. She'd still crafted something out of nothing, and she let herself feel a swell of pride at her success. Now, if she could sell it, she'd feel even better. She hastened to enter the building where she'd find Jameson's office, keen to keep the mud from splashing onto her clothing, but more than that wanting to settle herself in to make some last minute additions she'd thought over on her walk.

She took it for a good omen when Steven Rogers, now Dr. Steven Rogers according to the newly installed plaque on the entrance floor, caught her attention as they met on the staircase, he on the way down, she up. They hadn't seen each other in ages, Steve having been in England as he studied to become a doctor. He had been sickly as a boy, and his parents had taken him to a spa in Switzerland where he had undergone an experimental treatment which left him a perfect specimen of health. More than that - Steven was the strongest boy she knew, by far. But the doctor who had helped to create the treatment had died under mysterious circumstances shortly after, and Steve had sworn that he would devote his life to the study of medicine in the hopes of rediscovering the process that had changed his life.

She was rather startled to realize now that he was truly all grown up, his face angular in that way she'd grown familiar associating with other men - his weak chin and pouty lips gone - and his shoulders had grown quite broad beneath his coat. His hair was the same gold as a field of ripe wheat, though, and his eyes just as bright a blue as she remembered.

"Natasha," he said delightedly, "you know I'm setting up my practice?" He seemed to assume that she'd been told at all about him coming back.

Nancy never said a damn word to me, she thought, irritation bubbling. Then again, Natasha hadn't been visiting the Rogers family while Steve was gone. She hadn't been calling on anyone, which was, she supposed, rather rude. One was supposed to ask after one's friends. Except that Nancy was not friendly, not in the least. One called on one's acquaintances, then. One was supposed to inquire after their health and kept up with the important events in their lives - which in Nancy's case would consist of the minute details of parties, balls, and galas.

How incredibly dull, Natasha couldn't help but think.

"Congratulations! It's lucky I'm here early, then. At ten I'm going to see Jameson," she informed him, regaining her sense of excitement, fingers beating against the front of her manuscript as though she was breathing life into it. "He's going to look at my manuscript and see if he wants to publish it."

She had begun the book before Steven had left for medical school, often reading sections to him when they spent long afternoons together. He had been the one to whom she had confided her mother's ghostly visitation. Nancy, as it turned out, had eavesdropped and blurted the same story to the whole world, and the whole world had mocked and ridiculed Natasha in return. As much as she'd hated Nancy then, as badly as she'd wanted to sink her fists into her grubby little face, it'd taught Natasha a valuable lesson. She'd decided to exploit the wild imaginings of her grief-stricken ten-year-old self, for that was what they must have been, as the grand, overarching metaphor for loss in her novel. Terrifying though the occasion might have been, some small patch of her heart was grateful for the experience as it had provided her with an opportunity she might have missed out on. Perhaps it was no shock, after all, that the apparition had been at the forefront of her mind that morning.

Steve's smile grew at the mention of her book's completion, and there was the boyish grin she had known so well. "You do know that it's only nine o'clock," he ventured, teasing her as surely as if they were ten again.

She could hardly help herself as her smile grew, too, her cheeks aching. It'd been so long since she'd had an excuse to let go the way she could with Steve "Yes, but I have a few corrections I want to make first." She cut herself off from going through mental checklist of her revisions as Steven asked her to stop by his new office soon. While in London he'd procured a set of uncanny pictures he wished to show her, and his smile turned expectant.

"I'd really love to," she assured him. "Perhaps later in the week? I'll be sure to let you know in advance, so I don't disrupt your practice."

He shook his head. "You could never be a disruption, Natasha. You know that. Anyway, I'm to help Mother," he was saying. "She's throwing a party tomorrow for Nancy's suitor. Why don't you come? We could steal away, look at them then?"

As if on cue Nancy, one of her social-climbing hangers-on, and her mother Mrs. Rogers, appeared on the stairs. All three of them were dressed to the nines, and Nancy was practically glowing at the attention. Steve turned, his proposition forgotten in the arrival of the women in question. What was it about trouble coming in threes?

"We met him at the British Museum," Mrs. Rogers announced, like she was proclaiming she'd finally found a cure for the common cold. Natasha couldn't help but wonder just whose triumph the supposed match was; Nancy's, or Mrs. Rogers'. "Last fall, when we were visiting Steven."

"You wouldn't believe it. He's so handsome," Nancy gushed, cheeks growing rosy.

In part, Natasha was happy for Nancy's success. It would at least afford her some peace if the woman traveled overseas. The other girl's dream was to be well married, as was the dream of most women of their time as the world would have it. Things in America were supposed to be so different, but she couldn't help but wonder why it was they clung to the ideals of their ancestors rather than create a new slew of expectations and ideals for themselves.

Of course, these thoughts weren't popular. She'd learned quickly to keep them to herself, and it was all she could do to cast them out. Nancy would lead a husband on a merry dance, that was for certain, and if Natasha was to have a chance at happiness then it was only fair Nancy had one, too, no matter what it might have been.

"And he has now crossed the ocean with his sister only to see Nancy again," Mrs. Rogers continued, preening.

"Mother, he's here on business," Nancy protested, though it was clear her words were for show alone.

"Or so he says," Nancy's sycophant trilled, and Nancy's blush deepened. If she'd been carrying a fan she'd have fluttered it to cool herself.

Mrs. Rogers continued. "It seems he's a baronet."

"What's a baronet?" Nancy's companion asked, and Mrs. Rogers shrugged with studied nonchalance, as though it mattered not what sort of title he held, so long as Nancy could marry into it. What great regard she must have held for her daughter.

"Oh, well, an aristocrat of some sort, of course -"

"A man who lives off land that others work for him. A parasite with a title." The sharp words tumbled out before Natasha had a chance to stop herself. They felt familiar, as though she was reciting something she'd long since learned and had forgotten the source.

Steven grinned behind his hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but Mrs. Rogers arched her brows. Natasha's chin rose, refusing to back down, though she knew Mrs. Rogers could clearly hold her own when any sort of challenge was raised regarding a matter close to her heart. Or more accurately, her pride. Natasha could all but see the woman's claws come out.

"Well, this parasite is perfectly charming and a magnificent dancer. But that wouldn't concern you now, would it Natasha?" she added, and the smile with which she addressed Natasha was so sweet it nearly turned her stomach.. "Our very own Jane Austen."

"Mother," Steven berated her, though he was smart to keep his tone gentle, his smile gone.

"Though I believe she died a spinster," Mrs. Rogers' gaze was flinty, her mouth now set in a tight, insincere line. A warning, if Natasha had ever seen one, to back down. Pity, she'd never learned how to. They didn't teach the art of an apologetic retreat in Russia, nor was it taught at home.

"Mother please," Steven said.

"It's quite all right, Steven," Natasha assured him. She met the older woman's gaze full on. What was there to be afraid of from a peacock with pretty words, and an ugly heart? It was amazing Steven turned out as good as he did. "I would much prefer to be Mary Shelley," she said sweetly. "She died a widow." She didn't allow the woman a chance to retort, turning instead to leave. Let her make what she cared to of that.

Natasha found a space in one of the larger reading rooms, set aside for patients and those waiting for their appointments. There she laid down her manuscript, took out her pen and ink, and set to making her changes. Unknown to her, the ink from her pen leaked and smudged the tips of her fingers, so when she smoothed back red tendrils of hair, she unknowingly left faint fingerprints on her forehead.

She had no idea of her disheveled state when at last she made her way to Mr. Jameson's office. Early, of course. Waiting just wasn't a speciality of hers. Of course the publisher pointedly commented on her lack of timeliness as she took a seat before his desk. Internally she churned with anxiety, but kept a perfectly composed expression as page by page he flipped through her magnum opus.

She could have sworn she heard the clock ticking. Or was that her heart in her throat?

He sighed. Again. The sound was heavy and put upon and most decidedly not a good sign.

"A ghost story. Your father didn't tell me it was a ghost story." Each syllable was laden with disappointment.

She determinedly sat up a little straighter. "It's not, sir. It's more like a story with a ghost in it."

She reached out for the manuscript with her ink-stained fingers to show him, if she could. He pulled away. Undaunted, she pressed, "The ghost is simply a metaphor for the past."

"A metaphor." He could not have sounded less enthusiastic. He read on a bit. "It's... rather violent. Excellent handwriting, though. Firm loops."

Oh, damn. He hates it.

He put the manuscript down and rearranged it slowly, his face composed enough to keep hidden the disdain that he clearly felt for it

"So, Miss Romanova, how is your father?" he asked. "In good health, I hope?"

* * *

"He said it should have less violence, and needed a love story. Can you believe that?" She stabbed the cut of fillet in front of her, wishing instead to be stabbing the man's composed face to show him what she felt about that. "He only said it because I'm a woman."

Natasha couldn't help but become incensed all over again. She leaned forward in her chair, just to the left of Ivan's in the dining room of their home. It was sunset, and scarlet light spilled over the damask wallpaper and alabaster sconces, making the silver dishes shine.

"Everyone falls in love, dear," he ventured, his smile understanding. Bemused, even. "Even women." He was dressed for dinner with every hair on his head carefully combed, his beard immaculately trimmed. Though Ivan was nearly sixty no one would've been able to tell given the effort he put into looking a good decade and a half younger. And it was thought that women were vain, shallow creatures.

Natasha frowned, quieted by the unshakeable feeling that what her foster-father said was wrong. She deeply distrusted romance, and suspected that she would never fall under its sickly-sweet spell. "Why? Why must a woman always write about love? Stories of girls in search of the ideal husband - being saved by a dashing young prince? They're droll lies dressed up as fairy tales."

An expression she couldn't read flittered across his face. Then he said, "Well, I'll have a word with Jameson on Monday morning at the club."

Natasha's expression hardened. "You most certainly will not. I will do this. Alone."

The look he gave her was gentle, and she braced herself for his objections - which she had no doubt he would intend as fatherly concern and nothing more, but which could certainly not move her from her decided course. Then he frowned slightly and leaned toward her, as if examining her under a microscope.

"When you met Jameson, were your fingers ink-stained like that?"

She quickly pulled her hands below the table, hiding an irrational surge of shame and fear. At least he hadn't seen the smudge on her forehead as well. She had only discovered it after her appointment. Sloppy, she chastised herself. Strange how her internal voice sounded so much like her old dancing master, back in Russia.

"I see," he said solemnly, then set a small package before her on the table. For a moment she was vaguely terrified, but then she caught the ghost of a rueful smile on Ivan's face. "I was hoping this would be a celebratory gift but..."

She opened it and lifted out a beautiful gold fountain pen. It was the most magnificent writing instrument she had ever seen, and evidence of his faith in - and support of - her ambition to become a writer, to make something of her wickedly overactive imagination. Deeply touched, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. Though he was flustered, the color in his face assured her that he was equally pleased.

"I'm a builder, dear. If I know one thing, it's the importance of the right tool for the job."

"Actually, Father," she said carefully, choosing to call him that because she knew he liked it, "I was hoping I could type it in your office," she asked, keeping her voice as demure as possible without drawing too much attention.

She caught the minute flash of disappointment as he regarded the gleaming pen, rendered obsolete by her request. "Type it?"

"I'm submitting it to The Atlantic Monthly," she said. She'd made up her mind after Jameson had rejected it. "And I only just realized when Jameson was looking over it that my handwriting is far too feminine. I could try to change it, but -"

"Too feminine?" Ivan balked.

"It gives me away. They won't take me seriously if they know I'm a woman. I've decided I'll sign it N.A. Romanoff, too. That will ensure they treat it fairly." Most importantly it would prevent them from telling she was a woman. Romanova was as much a give away as her first name.

He looked pensive but clearly decided against putting up a fight. "Without a doubt, dear."

* * *

A/N: That's all for tonight, folks. As you can see, for right now it's pretty close to Crimson Peak (except Natasha being a bit more interesting than Edith). Once the players are all in motion then you'll start to see the real differences. ;)


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 _This day is mine._

Despite yesterday's rejection, Natasha had to remain positive, had to stay on her feet. Her hopes buoyed her confidence until she swore she had wings. All would be right once she had a fair hearing - her work read by someone without a bias against her gender - she was confident that her work would be published.

She almost - but not quite - imagined how proud her foster-mother would be if presented with a book her own daughter had written. But she held that thought at bay, refusing it a place to land. The image of that blackened hand on her arm, that stench, that horrible voice -

 _It was only a nightmare. I was mad with grief._

A second voice shot up in the doubt of her first, however, its tone soft, dulcet and so very true. _No, you weren't. You know exactly -_

She pushed the thoughts away as she made it to Ivan's engineering building. Only positive thoughts while she could manage it. Dominated by huge models of buildings and bridges encased in glass, the airy rooms with their high ceilings were a beehive of activity as engineers, clerks, and assistants examined miniature models, executed blueprints and measured drawings, conducting the vast business of Mr. Ivan Somodorov. Her father had built some of the finest buildings in Buffalo, and in many other cities as well. Buildings of stone, brick, and iron that would carry his name and his vision down through the centuries. He was as much an artist in his world as she hoped to become in her own world of books and stories. She was not his true daughter, but the thrill of creation, of molding something from thought into being, was as real a tie as blood.

To that end, she sat ensconced in the chair of Ivan's secretary, her manuscript at her elbow, as she peered at the alphabet keys, which were arranged in no discernable pattern. Over the years she had come to be comfortable with English, even think and dream in it, but she found herself wondering how the cyrillic letters would look among the small round keys. Hunting for each letter, it took a span of time to peck the title and opening line of the story. Several spans more to fill a page. Then, after a moment's hesitation, she touched the return lever and the carriage zipped across the top of the contraption. Natasha was delighted.

"I'll get the hang of it in an hour or two," she assured the secretary, who seemed thoroughly impressed with how quickly Natasha was taking to the task. "It makes it look rather handsome, don't you think?"

The secretary gave a nod and a smile before she busied herself with hefting a box file onto a shelf. Natasha settled back to typing, finding that she needed to look at the odd arrangement of letters on the keys less and less, when she became aware that there was some sort of shadow being thrown on the typewriter. She narrowed her eyes, irritation making her jaw set.

"Good morning, miss," said a voice. Male, English.

She looked up.

The greenest eyes she had ever seen were focused on her. She blinked, riveted. The visitor's face was chiseled, his dark hair neatly arranged, yet some jet curls refused to be tamed. Her writer's brain sprang to find words to describe him: _posh, composed._ He was dressed in a dark green velvet suit that had at one time been resplendent - another good word - and perfectly cut to mold his slim build, but was now nearly threadbare at the cuffs. His ensemble did not speak of poverty, precisely, but he was certainly not as well off as he had been, perhaps. Yet he acknowledged her look with a sort of courtly grace that did speak of good manners and a cultivated upbringing.

Other words sprang to mind: _uncommonly handsome._

She revealed none of this as she waited to see what he would say next. Her eyes flickered downwards to note that he also carried a box, polished and made of dark wood, under his arm. It looked heavy, but he held it effortlessly.

"Forgive the interruption," he said, his upper-class British accent falling tantalizingly on her ears, so used to the otherwise harsh consonants of the upper class denizens of Buffalo. "But I have an appointment with Mr. Ivan Somodorov, Esquire."

Her foster-father. Excellent.

"Goodness. With the great man himself?" Natasha asked, assuming a bland tone. She was rather taken with him, but it was not considered proper for a lady to behave too warmly to a man, let alone when she didn't know him. And using her father's tools in his office, Natasha supposed she ought to do her best to behave properly. Besides that, there was something about this man that made her want to keep her admiration closely hidden, for now.

"I'm afraid so." His smile was broad and boyish, but she saw through it, saw that he was nervous. That only added to his attractiveness as far as she was concerned. Dashing as he was, he was still human, and every hero needed a flaw or two to keep the reader enticed. She kept her eyes fastened on him as he produced a business card and presented it to her.

"Sir Loki Sharpe, baronet," she read aloud. Nancy's aristocrat, her parasite. _Bozhe moi,_ she was the Elizabeth Bennet of her day.

"I will call him." The secretary assured, moving to alert Ivan to Mr. Sharpe's arrival.

Sir Loki Sharp crooked his neck as he looked down at her desk and Natasha took another moment to take him in. His fingers tapped on the wooden box, his nerves manifesting physically even as his attention was diverted, and by God it was a miracle his cheekbones didn't slice through his skin, they were so sharp. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to ignore how her heart stammered and her breathing caught in her throat.

"You're not late, are you?" Natasha asked, keeping her tone light. "He hates that."

"Not at all. In fact, I'm a bit early," he answered, though his words sounded distracted.

 _At least I'm not the only one._

"Oh, I'm afraid he hates that, too." She wasn't certain why she was teasing him. It didn't matter; she was failing to get a rise out of him. Perhaps she had misread the earlier hint of nervousness, he now seemed rather detached. She was a bit disappointed in herself.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry. But -" he made a gesture at her manuscript, and she realized then that he'd been _reading_ it "- this is a piece of fiction, isn't it?"

She nodded, concealing her confusion by keeping her face as blank as she could. Internally, she wanted to assure him that she had already decided that it was just too silly for the heroine to fall in love with Cavendish on page one, and that she was going to change it back to the way it had been before Jameson had turned it away. She shouldn't have listened even if he was a famous publisher. Stories that centered around love were little more than vain lies and fairy tales told for the weak and - _obaldet,_ he was reading _more_.

"Who are you transcribing this for?" he asked, sounding genuinely intrigued, yet she couldn't tell if he was interested or disgusted by the text on the page.

She decided to dodge his question. If he hated it, she didn't want him to know it was hers. "It'll be on its way to New York City tomorrow. _The Atlantic Monthly._ "

He took that in. Read another page. "Well whoever wrote this is very good. Don't you think?" His green eyes found hers, and she thought maybe he had guessed her secret already.

Too cautious to hope she tilted her chin up. "It is?"

He shrugged as if to say, _Isn't it obvious?_ "It has captured my attention," he answered lazily.

But she could tell he was playing casual. He liked it. He liked her book. Steven had been the first one to read it, then Jameson, and Steve had listened carefully, but hadn't provided commentary except to say things such as, "That's a nice description of the countryside," or, "I'm sorry, I'm confused. Is the ghost real or not?"

But Sir Loki Sharpe, baronet, had declared it _very_ good. No doubt he'd attended superior boarding schools and studied at a great university such as Oxford. He probably had a vast library in his castle back in England, and had read Virgil in the original Latin. How could her little book compare?

Favorably, that was how. He had said so himself. She couldn't help but be galvanized.

"I wrote it. It's mine." She heard the note of pride in her voice.

He looked up from the text, raising an eyebrow. "Ghosts?"

She lifted her chin, ready to defend her work, but his serious expression broke, and he gave her a wry smile.

"They've always fascinated me. You see, where I come from, ghosts are not to be taken lightly," he confided.

"Oh really?" she was intrigued, and what she had meant as an arched comment instead came out rather eager.

He brightened measurably. His lips had parted and he was about to say something - a witty remark, by his expression - when her father's deep voice boomed out.

"Sir Loki Sharpe. Welcome to Buffalo."

Ivan Sodomorov approached, his boots heavy as he strode closer, striking a particularly impressive figure. As he regarded the Englishman a cloud crossed his face, yet it vanished when he turned his attention to Natasha.

"I see you've met my ward, Natasha Romanova."

Natasha would be lying if she said she didn't enjoy the flicker of surprise in Loki's eyes when she turned next to him. Her smile could only be described as cheeky as her father escorted the speechless man toward the meeting room. He clutched the wooden box a touch closer, only making Natasha that much more determined to find out why he was there. Everything about him was immensely interesting. She rose from the desk, leaving her manuscript where it lay.

* * *

Once Loki entered the richly appointed conference room, he greeted the board members briefly and asked their permission to set up his case. They nodded, murmuring, and he set to work. It was obvious to Natasha that he was a consummate showman. Even this early preparation was done with style. He placed the case on the table provided as if it held a living thing, gentle and precise. He opened it, sliding out two bars with a flourish, and the sides fell away, revealing the contraption within.

Natasha recognized the general purpose as some kind of excavator, but even to her untrained eye the complexity of the gears and chains was impressive.

Taking a smaller box from beside the machine, he slid off the lid to reveal a single bright red brick, a seal pressed into it with precise clarity. "The Sharpe clay mines have been royal purveyors of the purest scarlet clay since 1796," he began. He turned so that everyone could see the brick, then set it on the nearest table to be passed around.

"In its liquid form," he withdrew a bottle full of a bright red liquid and held it to the light, "it is so rich in ore and so malleable, that it can produce the strongest bricks and tiles." The bottle was likewise sent to make the rounds of the board.

"Excessive mining in the last 20 years has caused most of our old deposits to collapse." He turned to the tiny machine, manipulating it deftly with his long fingers. "This is a clay harvester of my own design. It transports the clay upwards, and digs deep." With another flourish, he flipped a small lever and the machine whirred to life, the tiny buckets lifting from the ground to turn over at the other end. The multitude of gears turned in an intricate dance as puffs of steam rose from the little engine. "I have absolutely no doubt this machine will revolutionize clay mining as we know it," he said confidently.

Ivan, however, scowled. "Turn it off, please," he said gruffly.

His expression faltering, Loki did so, albeit reluctantly. It was clear to Natasha that he was very proud of his invention.

Ivan stood, stepping lazily into Loki's space. "Have you built and tested it, full scale?" he sounded doubtful of the answer.

Loki, smiled graciously and continued his presentation. "We have not yet, sir, we are very close. We had hoped that with funding-"

"So what you have..." Ivan interrupted, "is a toy model. And some fancy words."

There were rustles as a few of the board members shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Ivan Somodorov was known as a ruthless businessman, and it was clear he was not going to go easy on the young Baronet.

With a beleaguered smile, Loki sought to try again. "Mr. Somodorov..."

Walking past him, Ivan stopped at one of his colleague's desks, shifting a few of the papers on it. "You've already tried, and failed, to raise capital in London... Edinborough... Milan..." he listed.

Loki tilted his head, clearly growing irritated. "That's correct, sir," he said with strained grace.

Ivan turned to face the man once more. "And now you're here."

Natasha watched as his jaw seemed to click into place. "Correct again," a hint of sardonic wit slipped into Loki's voice.

Internally, Natasha winced. Ivan did not like flip comments, and Loki was on shaky ground already.

Ivan smiled, and Natasha knew that it was about to go rather poorly for Loki. She had a momentary urge to defend the Englishman somehow, but she suppressed it. She doubted he would appreciate her trying to fight his battles for him.

"The men at this table," Ivan gestured to the board members, "all of us, came up through honest hard work." He let that sink in for a moment before chuckling. "Well, maybe not all of us. Mr. Murdock here is a lawyer. But even he can't help that."

The men, Mr. Murdock included, chuckled good-humouredly at the joke.

"When I immigrated here from Russia, I started as a steelworker, raising buildings before I could own them. My hands, feel them." He grabbed Loki's hands, and to the baronet's credit he did not flinch at the invasion. "Rough. A reflection of who I am. Of what I've done with them. Now you, sir. When I shook your hand... you've got the softest hands I've ever felt, including my daughter's."

Loki narrowed his eyes in an expression very close to a sneer. Natasha watched as the muscles of his wrists and arms bunched up beneath his velvet coat. He was obviously exerting a great deal of pressure on his grip, but Ivan gripped back and said nothing. After a moment, Loki relaxed, and Ivan released his hands.

"In America, we bank on effort, not privilege. That is how we built this country," he proclaimed, pride and patriotism ringing clear on his voice.

Natasha realized then why Loki Sharpe's presentation had little effect on Ivan. He was doomed to fail before he even entered the boardroom. Ivan had left Russia to escape the abuses of the nobility, their iron grip on the people who were little more than slaves. When Natasha had called the baronet a parasite when speaking to Steve's family, it had been Ivan's words she had parroted. Ironic, perhaps, that her foster father was so patriotic now when she'd heard him rail against the supposed American aristocracy, the born and bred men that had laughed at him, a foreigner, when he'd first brought his family to this land. Now that Ivan was successful, landing himself on the parapet of the American Dream, it was so much easier to look down on the efforts of those he saw as privileged.

But Loki was not easily cowed. "I'm here with all that I possess, sir," he said, voice quiet but firm with resolve. "A name, a patch of land, and the will to make it yield. The least that you can grant me is the courtesy of your time, and the chance to prove to you and these fine gentlemen that my will, dear sir, is at the very least as strong as yours." There was steel in his expression, and fire in his voice.

Natasha saw the coming storm, and took the only action she could see to diffuse the tension. She made her exit, quietly but not silently. The innocent noise would be enough to remind Loki and her foster-father that they were not the only people in the room, and hopefully that would be enough to keep them in check. She lamented the chance to see the battle of wills play out, and was surprised to find that for once, she was not rooting for Ivan.

But her manuscript was not going to type itself, after all.

* * *

A/N And now you begin to see some slight differences, if you're paying close attention...

Do you lovely readers have a preference for the posting schedule of this story? I've been out of the fan fiction game for so long I have no idea what people like best. Let me know!


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It was pouring as Ivan fidgeted with the fastenings of his shirt, growling to his reflection that he needed a damn corset in order to look his best, Natasha off to the side of his room and watching her foster father with a fond smile. He was so petrified of looking his age it manifested in some of the most amusing decisions she'd heard a man make. That was saying something as she did her best to keep up with politics when she could, and those men were a bunch of louts. She folded her arms over her burgundy evening gown, a ratty possession of her Mama's that had survived Ivan's purge of her belongings, but it helped her to feel all the more connected to her. Comfortable. After a day of typing and scrutinizing her own work while Sir Loki Sharpe weighed heavily on the back of her mind it was much needed.

"You look as handsome as ever," she assured him with a warm smile and a hand on his shoulder before he moved to shrug on his dinner jacket, the black velvet a Christmas present from her two years ago. It still fit him wonderfully, despite what he liked to grumble about. "But if you want I'll have a word with Cook and we'll start restricting how much vatrushka she makes and how much you're allowed to have-."

"You'll do no such thing," he looked back, eyes hinted with mirth though he was clearly trying his best to keep his expression hard. "Am I to have no indulgences?"

She arched a brow, unable to help herself. "Depends. You're the one who wants a corset."

His sigh was heavy and lightened the tension in her heart. She did worry about him and his sweet-tooth. It'd gotten worse with time. She could hardly remember a time when he indulged when Mama was alive, but with her gone, and the years pushing her all the further away from them, he'd developed a fondness for them to the point of worry, as though mortality was made easier to digest with every bite of the sweet cakes and treats that Cook served them twice a week-three times if Natasha wasn't careful to intercept Ivan's requests.

"Are you sure you don't want to come with us? Mrs. Rogers has gone to a lot of trouble for Little Lord Fauntleroy," he joked. He tied his bowtie for a third time, then huffed and pulled it out again. It never looked as perfect as he wanted.

"You mean Loki Sharpe?" She gave him an indulgent smile and moved between him and the mirror, tying the bow herself. Likely she did no better than him, but he wouldn't redo it and risk hurting her feelings.

"Sir Loki Sharpe, Baronet," he said in a sing-song mocking voice. "Apparently he's taken an interest in Nancy Rogers, poor girl." He watched her expression carefully, as if to catch her looking jealous.

Natasha gave nothing away. What right had she to be jealous of a man she had no claim to?

Still, Ivan pressed the subject. "I saw you spying on us, paukka," he teased.

Pleased with how she'd tied the bow, she gave it a pat and stepped back to admire her work. "It's hardly spying," she argued. "And anyway, was his proposal so terrible as to warrant the full force of your wrath? I felt embarrassed for him."

Ivan scowled. "It wasn't his proposal, dear, it was the man. There's something about him that I don't like."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Really? You don't know? I would have thought it obvious. It's his title you don't like. But England is not Russia, Ivan. There are no serfs. Sir Sharpe strikes me as a man who is trying very hard to take care of the land he owns."

"Oh, then what about the excessive mining he talked about so casually?" Ivan collected his gloves and hat, heading for the stairs.

"He said in the last twenty years. He can't be older than thirty, by the look of him. Younger, I would say. He wouldn't have been in charge, he's likely inherited his problem."

Ivan sighed, exasperated, but listened to her analysis as they went down the steps.

"His suit was fine, well crafted, but the style is at least a decade out of fashion. And worn. He's probably had only the one his entire adult life. His shoes were also hand-made, but they looked as if the soles had been replaced several times," Natasha rattled off, only just now realizing that she'd taken stock of such details.

Ivan paused at the foot of the staircase, giving her a considering look. "I can see that you observed far more than I did," he admitted. He sounded worried.

The doorbell rang, interrupting his thoughts. "That will be Steven, he's bringing about his new motorcar, and I know he'd like to see you." The smile he shot her was one of smug knowledge. "He set up his new practice now that he's back from England, and he's had a fondness for you since you two have been young."

Natasha felt her cheeks burn. "Ivan!"

"I'm only saying!" he insisted with a laugh, pleased that he'd managed to take her off guard. "If you were to want to tag along I'm certain he'd be thrilled for the company."

Natasha bit her lower lip, not meeting his eyes as she hurried down the last few steps. She was wearing only her dressing gown, which was not acceptable for receiving company, but was Steve really company? He was almost more family, and she doubted he'd even notice anyway.

Dr. Rogers was admitted to their entryway, handing his umbrella to the butler. "Good evening, Mr. Somodorov," he said cheerfully, and then turned to see them both. "Natasha!" His grin faltered as he took in her state of undress.

"My, don't you look smart, Steve?" she teased him. It was rare that she saw him in full white-tie, and he cut a very dashing figure in the formal garb.

"Hm?" he said distractedly, then looked down at himself. "What this? It's just, you know..." he shrugged, and then grinned at her once more. "My mother insisted I get a new one."

Natasha shook her head. He really had no idea how good-looking he was, did he?

"Natasha should be all dressed up to match, don't you think Steven?" Ivan teased them both in one fell swoop.

Steve laughed. "As I recall, Natasha takes a dim view of social frivolity, yes?" he asked.

"As if you don't," she frowned playfully. Reaching out, she took both men's shoulders and turned them about playfully. "You lads enjoy the party," she said by way of dismissal. She held on to Steve's shoulder a moment longer, then whispered, "Don't let him eat too many sweets."

"What?" Ivan turned back, scowling.

But Natasha just made shooing gestures, pushing them out the door and closing it firmly. Pressing her ear to the wood, she listened to hear them leave.

"So she's not coming," Steve lamented as they went down the steps.

"Stubborn to the bone," Ivan agreed.

"She takes after you," the young doctor said, a long standing joke in their family.

"I'm not complaining!" Ivan all but shouted. "I like it!"

Then the motorcar started, drowning out what was left of their conversation. A moment later the car tootled off, and Natasha breathed a sigh of relief.

Alone at last, Natasha climbed the stairs once more, to her father's library. It wasn't that she was forbidden, in fact Ivan encouraged her to read any book she liked, but for some reason she didn't want him to know what she was up to. Her earlier analysis of Sir Loki had set gears turning in her mind, and she itched to do some research.

She found three books that were promising, one on the English nobility, another a geographical study of the British isles, and the last, although not hopeful, a book of English fairy tales. You never knew what aspects of a culture would have an effect on the psyche. Carrying the heavy books back to her room, she locked herself in and set to work, spreading the books out on her bed.

The book of peerage did not have much to offer. It seemed the Sharpe family played a very small part in the grander scheme of English Lords and Ladies, and it listed only their family name, the location of their holdings, and the ancestral home, Allerdale Hall. There was a little illustration of a fine old house, with Gothic Revival turrets rising up from a much older medieval structure.

Turning instead to the geography, she delved into the history and economy of Northern Cumberland. On the border with Scotland, it was an area that had been settled by some of the earlier viking invaders, although as the land was not particularly good for farming they quickly moved on. It seemed the local customs retained quite a bit of Norse influence, though, compared to the Pictish influence of more southerly counties. That explained why Loki had such an unusual name, she supposed.

Natasha was just starting to read about the clay mining industry when her doorknob rattled. For a moment she thought to get up and answer it, but then a thought struck her. No one in her home would enter her room without knocking, not even Ivan. She didn't respond well to surprises, and had some dim memory of lashing out with a pair of scissors at a maid who entered unannounced when she was nine. The maid had left their service, upset, and Natasha had long since stopped jumping at every little sound in the house, but it was not the sort of thing the staff forgot.

The doorknob rattled again. There was a click, and the lock must have tripped because the door slipped open. The handle jumped up and down as it swung outward toward her.

Natasha slipped off her bed, instinctively finding a careful stance with one foot placed in front of the other, her arms loose by her sides. But as the door came fully open, there was no one there. Or was there? She could not see the old grandfather clock at the end of the hall. Something dark stood in the way. She took a few steps forward, and then froze when she recognized the shape.

A woman, all dressed in black.

The figure stood, silent, at the far end of the hall, watching Natasha slowly took hold of the doorknob.

The dark woman's hands shot out, reaching for Natasha. Jumping, she slammed the door and pressed her hands against it.

What was that? Her mind raced, her breath coming in sharp gasps. It could not be a person, it had made no noise coming up the creaky old stairs. Could it possibly be...

Pressing her ear to the door, Natasha fought to hear over the pounding of her heart. Nothing. But she could still feel it, the chill of an unnatural presence out there, waiting. Screwing up her courage, she decided it must be a person, just a very strange one.

"What is it? What do you want?" she demanded in a loud, but shaky voice. Maybe one of the servants would hear and come to investigate.

Hands, skeletal and black, burst through the wood of her door, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking. A skull of a face followed, it's terrible rictus grin opening to speak.

"Beware of Crimson Peak!" a rattling voice cried, a voice she recognized from that night so long ago.

Natasha tore herself loose from the grip of her mother's ghost, prepared to fight for her life. But the phantom dissipated into a smear of black mold on her door, then evaporated into nothing.

Panting for breath, Natasha nearly screamed when there was a pounding and the door opened once more.

But it was only Annie, her maid, hand still raised as it knocked, which had caused the door to open. "Excuse me, Miss, but - good heavens, are you alright? What is it?"

Natasha fought to control herself. Her breathing evened quickly. "You startled me, is all," she said breathlessly.

Annie blanched.

"I think there's something wrong with my door," she explained, already trying to rationalize what had just happened. "I could swear that I locked it."

Blinking, Annie looked to the door and back. "I'll have someone take a look at it," she said hastily. "There's a Sir Loki Sharpe at the door," she explained.

Natasha gave her a startled look. What was he doing here?

"He's dripping wet and most insistent upon coming in," Annie went on.

She stiffened. "That's entirely out of the question. Please send him away."

Annie looked very uncomfortable. "I tried, Miss, but... he's very persuasive." She blushed prettily, and Natasha remembered just what a charismatic persona Loki had projected in her Father's boardroom. Swaying board members was one thing, flirting with maids was something else entirely.

Drawing her dressing gown more firmly closed, Natasha swept down the stairs to confront him.

The blackguard was waiting on the settee in the entryway, and he stood when he heard her approach. When he turned she saw that he, too, was dressed in brand new formal wear, and white tie had a very different effect on him than it had on Steve. While Steve had looked rather out of place, his muscles cramped within the jacket and vest, Loki looked as if he had lived in this suit and not the shabby one he wore to his presentation. It made Natasha's mouth go dry, and she paused halfway down the last flight.

"Miss Romanova," he said, voice already sounding apologetic and ingratiating. Then he paused as well. "Are you unwell? You look rather pale."

It was really rather rude of him to make such a comment, but Natasha seized upon the opportunity. "Yes, I'm afraid I'm not feeling well this evening, Sir Loki." She descended a few more steps and came to stand behind the newel post, as if at a pulpit. "My father is not at home..."

"Oh, I know," Loki said casually, watching the maid as she hurried off to some other work. Leaving them alone, which was inappropriate. Natasha scowled.

"I waited in the rain for him to leave," the baronet admitted. She noticed that contrary to Annie's description, he looked perfectly dry, not a hair of his slicked-back coif out of place.

Alarm bells sounded in Natasha's mind. This man was a predator, she could see now, and she had best keep her wits about her.

"I know he's going to the Rogers' reception this evening, which is my destination as well," he went on.

"But that's in Midway Park, sir, and this is Maston Park," she chided. "You are rather off course, are you not?"

"Yes, I am," he gave an apologetic smile, but then took one step up the stairs toward her. "I'm afraid I need your help."

Doubtful, Natasha thought. What is he really here for? "My help with what?" she asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of her voice.

"Well the language, for one thing," he joked. "As you can see, I don't speak a word of American."

Natasha blinked at the non-sequitur. What on earth did he mean by that? She scrambled for a response. "If it make you more comfortable, Sir, perhaps we could converse in your native tongue?" she mirrored his aristocratic accent.

It was Loki's turn to look surprised.

"Or per'aps ye'll be wanting a more familiar banter?" she aimed for a Scott's accent, not really sure where she'd learned it. "Beggin' your pardon, but I dinnae learn t' bleeter much as a bairn."

Loki laughed, genuinely amused. "What a remarkable woman you are, Miss Romanova. Where on earth did you learn Doric?"

Natasha shrugged, a little uncomfortable as she did not precisely know the answer. She just knew it. "Russia," she answered evasively, switching back to the more comfortable American accent. "When I learned English we weren't sure where we would be going so I was taught several different versions." She thought that was the truth, anyway. Why couldn't she remember?

There was a pause, and then Loki gave his mischievous smile again. "Tell me, for I am curious. Why on earth would an enchanting young lady such as yourself want to stay here, alone, on such a dismal night, when there is a perfectly fine party to go to?"

Natasha sighed, floundering for her usual excuses. "I was reading..." she began.

"Ghost stories?" Loki guessed, teasing. "I suppose it's a good night for it."

Natasha froze, remembering what had just occurred upstairs. Suddenly staying home alone didn't seem so appealing. "Yes," she lied, thinking on her feet. "You mentioned before that ghost stories are popular in your homeland. They are in mine as well."

Loki's eyes twinkled. "I'll make you a bargain. If you come to the party with me, I will tell you ghost stories the entire way there."

Natasha gave him an amused look. "It's not far."

He shrugged. "We'll walk slowly."

She mulled it over. She really didn't want to stay in the house any more, and Sir Sharpe was turning out to be a most intriguing mystery. "Well, we had better bring an umbrella, then."

Loki grinned, triumphant.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The party looked to be in full swing by the time they arrived, the weather having let up enough that they were able to close up the umbrellas and continue without being impeded by rain, taking care to keep the hem of her gown from brushing against the still wet ground, not minding that her petticoats got dirty so long as she didn't tarnish her dress. Even with the cape she'd put on over her dress, Loki cited that he was worried she'd catch cold in the brisk, New York air. If only he knew that she'd lived in places far colder than this, and truthfully found more of a familiar comfort in the chill than perhaps any decent lady ought to. Not that she was the most decent of ladies, she supposed. Instead he offered his arm to her, holding her close as she looped her arm through his.

But, true to his word, he filled her in on the ghost stories he knew, his pace slowing to match hers so that she wouldn't have to hurry down the brick road that connected the Rogers' estate to Somodorov one, her heels clicking as they moved. With Loki being so close to her her every time she inhaled she breathed in the scent of a certain musk that seemed, somehow, distinctly Loki. Loki's spot right next to her, his breath fogging in the chill of the evening, his eyes bright as they caught the light of the Rogers' home, only made her all the warmer. She found herself wondering just whether or not he'd go so far as to take her hand, his long fingers twitching every few seconds as though he was longing to do something more.

The stories passed the time easily enough, she had to say, though she wasn't all that excited to get back to civility. It was stifling having to put on airs, pretending that she actually enjoyed the sycophantic imbeciles that primped and preened for any and every man who'd look twice at them, particularly those with money. And to think, that was all society expected of her, that she'd so easily fall for someone simply because they had the money to throw at her every whim and desire. At least with Loki they seemed to have something in common.

Who else was she able to talk about ghost stories with?

Still, the house beckoned with glistening, bright fingers, pulling them into the music and warmth of the party that'd already started without them. Late, of course, and unexpected in Natasha's case. It wasn't exactly the best of things to be when trying to make an impression, and if Loki had intentions of courting Nancy, well, he'd best hop to it to make amends.

But did she want him to? Absolutely not. She'd be lying if she so much as thought otherwise.

She offered Loki his jacket back before they went too far inside, not wanting to appear too improper, though the loss of immediate warmth brought gooseflesh to her exposed shoulders. While all the other women around her had decided on delicate, cream colored fabrics that had them standing out like candlesticks, each of them vying for attention, Natasha found the color didn't suit her all that well. In her rush to prepare she decided that if she was going to go for late and cause a scene at being unannounced then she ought to at least do a good job at sticking out. Her gown was a deep green satin, shining in the candlelight like the forest after a long rain, the nurtured grass and trees revitalized by the storm that had nursed them to health. Against her pale skin, and her curled red hair pinned up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, the color helped to keep her head held high rather than shirk to the back of the room, a cowed young girl without a place.

Just past the entrance doors, further into the great hall that had been cleared so that those in attendance could dance, Natasha caught sight of a few people she knew, and headed in that general direction with Loki in tow. Music lilted through the room, a delicate piano melody coming from the corner of the room, around which other guests had been drawn to stand around and take in the haunting tune, where a copper-haired woman dressed in all red sat on the bench. The lady pulled away from the keys at the completion of the piece, and polite clapping resounded all around. When the woman stood up it was with a tight smile on her thin lips and sharp eyes that took in the room as a whole before zeroing in on Loki at Natasha's side. In an almost self-conscious gesture, she jerked the ends of her sleeves back over her hands, hiding her long, thin fingers, as if to hide the enormous pigeon's blood ruby ring she wore. The lace on her sleeves looked well taken care of, but as with Loki's outfit her gown seemed remarkably dated even as well preserved as it was. It didn't surprise Natasha, then, when she came closer and smiled as Loki took her hand.

"Miss Romanova, may I have the pleasure of introducing you to my sister, Lorelei Sharpe?" Loki asked, looking thoroughly pleased as his gaze flitted from one woman to the next. Natasha kept her smile more than pleasant, and though Lorelei was just as courteous her expression shifted to one of labored indulgence when she regarded Loki once again.

"Loki, Nancy has been frantic waiting for you. We thought you might have gotten lost."

"Perhaps a little, though Natasha was more than kind enough to show me the way."

The look that Lorelei shot Natasha made her stomach clench, as though a vice had wrapped around it and pulled at her innards. There was a familiarity there, an anger. Was Lorelei blaming Natasha, then, for his lateness? Reading too far into the situation? Perhaps Natasha was simply paranoid, given the whispers and second looks that their entrance had caused.

Any further discomfort was cancelled out by the arrival of Steve, whose expression was kind as he landed on Natasha, his eyes bright and wide, Ivan at his side. His hand reached out to take hers and s squeezed. "Natasha, you look an absolute vision. We thought you weren't going to be able to make it."

Natasha's lips pursed in a secret smile as Loki was led away, presumably towards Nancy, the girl he was supposed to have on his arm. Not her. Just so. "I changed my mind. I couldn't resist taking you all by surprise, of course." It was a lie, not even a particularly good one, but whether Steve believed her or simply wished to believe it, he accepted it without another word. Natasha stepped forward to press her lips against her father's cheek, murmuring her welcome to him, and he echoed the sentiment before she moved to seek out Mrs. Rogers. Restitutions had to be made, apologies extended. A stir she might have caused, but seeing Ivan's face was enough of a reminder that there were still expectations to be followed.

Mrs. Rogers had called for the guests to move, to make room for dancing as Mr. Sharpe was to show them all a"proper," European waltz, when Natasha managed to catch her attention. "Mrs. Rogers, I do understand that you likely have no place for me, as I'd declined the invitation before-."

The smile that Mrs. Rogers shot her was cutting. It turned Natasha's veins to ice at the pure disdain and disbelief on the older woman's face that Natasha was even talking to her, let alone standing in front of her, in her own house. She extended a hand to clutch at Natasha's shoulder, her nails digging into Natasha's bared shoulders and her eyes narrowed as the smile grew. "Not to worry dear." Her words were pure acid. "There's a place for everything, and everything must go in its place." Before Natasha could say anything in return she was turned around and put into the background, just behind Nancy. Mrs. Rogers had been working at this for some time, Nancy had been looking forward to this for even longer, and Natasha tried not to hold it against them too much but damn she had a tight grip.

Still, she resigned herself to where she'd been put, at least for the moment. Loki was stepping around the room, snagging a candle from one of the servants who was moving an old, silver candelabra out of the way as a large circle was formed to allow a wide enough berth for a slew of dancers, let alone one couple.

"It is said that the true test of a waltz is that the dancers will be so swift, and their movements so precise, that the light of a candle in the lead dancer's hand will not go out." He drew it through the air so quickly that it seemed to be put out, only to have it flicker to life once more as soon as his hand stopped. There was a collective gasp that had him grinning, clearly thrilled at all eyes being on him, and Natasha couldn't help but be glad for him. A welcoming audience seemed to do it for him, so perhaps it was best that he seek Nancy out for attention. She'd be rapt in his stories and his charm, that was certain.

Natasha? Natasha tended to grow bored. Her wandering, restless imagination was a gift and a curse, in that the only interesting characters she ever seemed to find were in the pages of her books, never in person. It didn't stop her breath from catching in her throat, however, when he came to stop in front of her, clearly ignoring Nancy to Natasha's immediate left. His green eyes were locked onto Natasha's, boring into her soul as though he had a drill specially picked out for her alone. "This requires the perfect partner." His words were so soft she swore they were meant for her ears only, and he held the candle between them, illuminating his high cheekbones and eager, hopeful gaze. "Would you be mine?"

It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that every damn pair of eyes were on them both, and at her side she could hear Nancy's heartbroken, soft sob of disbelief. Natasha's spine straightened, and she looked at the girl to her side, before shaking her head. "I don't think that's appropriate," she hissed, hardly standing to look him in the eyes. She wanted to say yes, to take his hand, and to hell with the expectations of all the others. It was tempting enough if only to look at the look on Mrs. Rogers' face, but she couldn't. Not without trying to steer him towards what he ought to be doing, at least. Things might have been done differently in England, but in America there were a certain set of social rules.

But hadn't her Mama said they'd left Russia to escape the endless tyranny of rules and expectations?

"Nancy would love to be your partner."

"I daresay she would, but I didn't ask her. I asked you, Natasha."

His voice sounded like the heady, sparkling wine Natasha's father bought for special occasions as it bubbled from his lips, and it got her just as drunk on the power he was giving her, to buck the rules, to forget those around them, and to take his hand with her own. She'd hardly noticed that she had slid her fingers into his grip until he'd tightened his hand and laced their fingers together, leading her out to the open floor. Whispers flooded the silence as Loki looked over to where his sister had taken her seat at the piano. There was something strange about the look that was shot in their direction, but no sooner had Natasha decided to dissect it than Lorelei turned away and her fingers swept over the keys of the piano. The light-hearted, quick music filtered over the whispers, and Loki's attention was back to Natasha as he put his hand on her waist, pulling her a little closer than she'd been the last time she'd danced the waltz. Granted, that was years ago, with Steve and her practicing in his room, both of them young and foolish, but the difference couldn't have been any more stark, and a heat struck up in her gut that had been simmering since she'd laid eyes on the Baronet.

For a moment Natasha wished they weren't in a crowded room, all eyes upon them. Ideas flickered through her mind, things she could say or do to make Loki burn the way she burned, but none of them were fit for an audience.

Misinterpreting the flush on her cheeks, Loki gave her a sympathetic smile. "Close your eyes if you're frightened," he advised. "It's what I always do."

Natasha's spine stiffened at the slight barb. "No. I prefer to keep mine open," she purred, hardly believing she had the gall to make such an innuendo of it.

Loki's eyebrows rose, and his grin turned wolfish. Without warning, he pulled them into the dance, right in time with the music.

From the first step she swore she was floating. She didn't have time to look at the candle, to see the flickering flame as he whirled her around the room, his feet light, hers eager to follow. Contrary to what Mrs. Rogers thought, she'd loved dancing, had been doing it since she was a little girl. At least, she thought it was.

But she couldn't focus on that now, not with the way he was moving her about, leading her around as though she had wings on her shoes, and all the while he smiled down at her as though she was the most fascinating, most interesting woman he'd ever met in his life. She couldn't help but smile back, lips breaking into a wide grin as the world revolved around them in a dizzying rush of color and sound, the music moving with them, rather than if they were dancing to the music.

All too soon it was over and she was left with a dizzying rush of blood to her face as her heart sped up and her eyes flickered to the candle, still burning as strong as ever. She leaned over to blow it out, mindful of the way his gaze followed her every move. Other couples joined them for the next dance, this one slower than before, the piano's tune easing its way into a simple two step that had Loki wrapping his arm a little tighter around her waist and pulling her close enough that he could murmur into her ear. "You were exquisite. The perfect partner."

"You sound as though you were expecting something else." Her eyes flicked up to search his, glad to see the shock that played just beneath the lashes. She couldn't help but laugh quietly, breaking his surprised look as he realized she wasn't serious. "Of course I was. You picked me, I could hardly let you down with everyone watching us, could I?"

He smiled, and his voice was soft as he leaned in to murmur. "So I did."

Her heart skipped. What in the hell was happening to her? Her father had warned her that even women fell in love, but this? This wasn't some warm, all encompassing feeling like she'd read about her Mama's old novels, the ones shoved under her bed that Natasha had snuck out when Mama had started to get sick, wondering if she'd have enough time that they could read them together, and then clinging to them when the woman had passed. No, this sensation was sticky sweet, a dangerous indulgence and a craving that stuck in the back of her mouth no matter what she tried to clear her palate with. This was the sweets stolen at three in the morning, traipsing down the cold stairs in bare feet to grab an extra bite or two of the sweet cakes and custards their cook experimented with.

In that moment Eve's decision to pursue the forbidden fruit made complete and utter sense.


End file.
